


Broken Toy Soldier

by Jazzy_Jared



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- JW and SH together while JW is in Afghanistan, Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD John, Post- A Study In Pink, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Sherlock tries to help, a bit of smut, more will be added as the story continues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:22:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazzy_Jared/pseuds/Jazzy_Jared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is finally home after serving 3 years in Afghanistan, and is finally able to come home to his husband, Sherlock. Little do they know, John also brought along his demons from the war; he's plagued by nightmares, flashbacks, and violent outburst, but Sherlock stays through it all. John feels he's holding Sherlock back, but Sherlock holds on.<br/>John believes he's broken, and Sherlock is determined to fix him.</p><p>These two hope they can make it work, but is hope really enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is going to be shorter than the rest because it's more of an introduction than anything.  
> Thank you for actually clicking on my story, you'll love it *winks* I promise!  
> I sincerely have to thank Holly because she took the time to thoroughly edit this!! Sooo thank you so much!

_ December 2nd, 2009 _

 

                Sherlock Holmes rarely ever got nervous. There were only five instances that he could remember, and they all involved John:

 

  1.        Their first date (he was 17, John was 20). Sherlock had commented on John’s unflattering jumper, and John had called him an arse. It would become a regular occurrence between them.
  2.        When John first said, “I love you.” Sherlock had never been good with sentiment, so he expressed his feelings the only way he knew: by allowing John to use his microscope. For anyone else, it would have hurt to not hear their significant other say “I love you” back, but John understood.
  3.        When they had their first time (Sherlock was all bones, and awkward movements, but they made it work).
  4.        When John proposed. Sherlock stared at him for a while, completely silent. John had waited patiently for over a week before he received his “yes.” It didn’t bother him.
  5.        Today, as Sherlock sat in the Heathrow airport. He was practically humming with energy as he waited for John to arrive. He even bought flowers! He clutched the bouquet of flowers tighter in his hand as his leg bounced rapidly.



 

                 John was finally coming home after three agonizing years.

             Although, Sherlock had hoped it would have been under different circumstances. John, of course,the damn git, went and got himself shot and invalided home. Sherlock mulled over the phone call with John’s commanding officer in his mind, his stomach fluttering with nerves. He remembered the fear, the confusion, and then the sudden and unbounded rage. He'd shouted profanities, probably blowing out the poor commander’s eardrum, for ten solid minutes before the commander could assure him that John would, in fact, survive his injuries.

 

* * *

 

_ November 13th, 2009 _

 

                  _“Mr. Holmes, I need you to calm down for me, please? I’m not finished,” the commander begged. Sherlock couldn’t contain his worry, but he expressed it through anger. Being told his husband was shot (and nearly killed) was enough to send anyone, even Sherlock Holmes, who was supposed to be master over his emotions, over the edge._

 

_“Calm down? I don’t believe that’s in my vocabulary at the moment,_ commander. _He was supposed to come home safe! Now, I don’t know what is going on over there! Maybe you were too distracted by your recent divorce, or maybe you’re just not very good at keeping your soldiers out of harm's way!” Sherlock practically spat the words with acid._ _The commander gaped at his improbable (but correct) deduction._

_Commander Stanley Chadwick had dealt with making difficult phone calls in the past, but no one could compare to Mr. Holmes. They’d been on the phone for nearly 10 minutes, and had gotten nowhere!_

 

_Commander Chadwick quickly interrupted Sherlock before he broke into another monologue. “Mr. Holmes, please,” he soothed. Surprisingly, Sherlock quieted. “It’s a war; there’s no place out here that isn’t in harm’s way. We’re giving him a few weeks of rest, and he will be sent home after he is declared recovered. I will personally make sure you are notified the date and time he should be arriving.”_

 

_There was silence for a few beats, and then Sherlock asked, “How lucky is he?” His voice lacked its earlier venom. It was softer, somber._

 

_Sherlock didn’t believe in luck, but according to the commander, if John had moved even an inch, they would be having a completely different kind of conversation._

 

_“Pretty lucky, kid. He was one of my best soldiers, and a damn good doctor, too. I hate to see him go, but it sounds as though you need him more than his country does. He’ll be alright.”_

 

_Sherlock gave small smile “Well, thank you, Commander.”_

 

_“You take care, Mr. Holmes. I’ll get him home to you soon.”_

 

* * *

 

 

                He used some of that extra energy bubbling up to deduce a mother, who was trying to get her two young children under control, sitting a few seats beside him.

 

_Widow, didn’t really love her husband anyway. Approximately 33 years old, yet carries herself as though she’s far older, battling diabetes and has a foot fetish. Financially stable, but obviously not enough to put some of that money into her wardrobe. Has an overbearing mother. Father is an alcoholic, left-handed…_

               

               Sherlock’s deductions were cut short by a hesitant tap on his shoulder. He was prepared to turn around and snap at whoever it was. As he turned sharply, he nearly cried.

 

              There stood John, _his_ John, dressed in his uniform, and smiling down at him with such a wide grin.

 

 

             They stood in their embrace for what seemed like years. This hug represented so much: the late nights Sherlock stayed up thinking of John. The Skype calls that always seemed too short. The phone calls that always reminded Sherlock of the late night calls they would have when they were younger. The times he would try to eat, knowing it would make John happy to know he was taking care of himself. And it even represented that damned bullet that, regardless of how it hurt the both of them, sent John back into his arms. Sherlock nuzzled his face into John’s neck, and breathed in that familiar smell. It’s wood, lavender and a new smell of gunpowder filled his nose. Oh yes, this was his John.

 

             They reluctantly pulled apart, and John caught a glimpse of tears in Sherlock’s eyes, but once he blinked, they were gone. He glanced down, and saw Sherlock had flowers clutched almost painfully in his hand. “Those for me?” He asked as he pointed at the flowers.

 

             Sherlock held them out for John to take. “Well, you know,” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, “you’re sentimental — which, you know,” he added quickly, ”I-I mean to say that you rather enjoy sentiment, so I thought maybe—” John knew if he smiled any harder, his jaw would stay stuck in that huge grin forever. He quickly kissed Sherlock to stop his babbling.

 

            “I love them, really. Thank you. I know how hard this kind of stuff is for you, but I appreciate it.”

 

            “I’ve missed you,” Sherlock croaked. Okay, now John was sure Sherlock was definitely crying.

 

            “I’ve missed you too, love.” He pulled Sherlock’s hand toward his mouth and kissed it. “Now, please, can we get home? Airplane food isn’t the most appetizing.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand a bit.

 

            “I used the last bit of food in an experiment, so we’re going to have to order take-away.” Sherlock admitted.

 

             John shook his head at him. “You’re a right git, you know that?” They kissed once again, but more passionately. It turned into a full snogging session, but Sherlock pulled away, blushing like mad.

 

           “We’re in public, John. Just wait until we get home.” He confessed with a wink.

           

           John nodded his head quickly. “Oh, God, yes.”

 

          On their way to the taxi, Sherlock noticed John was a little jumpy. He kept looking over his shoulder, and he even flinched when a man walked by, talking loudly on his phone. Of course, this worried Sherlock a bit, but John just got home; all he’d need is a bit of time to adjust to civilian life, and he’ll be okay.

 

           When they got in the taxi, Sherlock started going on and on about a case he got a few weeks ago. It had something to do with a board game, and an Italian mobster. John didn’t really pay attention because he was far too busy drinking in the sight of Sherlock. Sherlock was wearing the purple dress shirt that John absolutely loved (tight in all the right places). His hair was, as always, wild and expressive. And of course, that beautiful coat that John bought him before he was deployed. He was definitely a sight to behold.

 

           “It’s psychosomatic.” Sherlock said, breaking John out of his trance.

 

           John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, a look reserved only for conversations with Sherlock. “What? What is?”

 

          Sherlock rolled his eyes, and pointed at John’s leg.“Your limp, Johnny, it’s psychosomatic. Obviously.”

 

           John smacked his arm playfully. “You’re such a pompous arse, Sherlock Holmes,” He said with a smirk. Sherlock reached over, and put his hand on John’s inner thigh, rubbing it with his thumb in circles.

 

           “Well, you married this pompous arse, so I can’t be that appalling,” he winked.

 

           “I sure did. God, help me.”


	2. Dr. Who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, I'm a horrible person because this should have been out waaay earlier but I procrastinate. :P  
> But here it is now. Also, I hope everyone catches the play on words in the title.  
> Last but definitely not least, I have to thank Holly for doing all the amazing editing she does, and she contributes so much to these chapters, I feel like calling her my co-author.  
> Thanks loves and enjoy :)  
> Tumblr: shezzareally

Back at 221B, Sherlock carried John’s bag and helped him slowly climb the stairs to their flat. John swore he could make it by himself, but Sherlock ignored his complaining.

“Just let me help you, John,” Sherlock said sweetly. John could see that Sherlock really wanted to help, so he simply nodded and let Sherlock guide him up the stairs gently.

Once they crossed the threshold, however, Sherlock lost all his restraint. Three years gone, and Sherlock seemed intent on making up for lost time. After the fourth round of sweat and heavy breathing, John found himself pulled back into bed by an overly enthusiastic Sherlock, and decided he’d had it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have sex (because seriously, it was on his mind constantly while he was deployed), he was just tired and really wanted to unwind and enjoy being home. He wanted to drink his favorite tea, sit in his chair in front of the fire, or even take a walk through the park. But he couldn’t go anywhere while Sherlock had his impossibly long limbs wrapped around him. They’d been at it for two hours already; John had forgotten how strong Sherlock’s libido was.

“Just stay in bed,” he whined. He started pouting, giving John his best puppy dog face, which normally did the trick. Sherlock knew he could make John do pretty much anything if he looked innocent enough.

“Don’t you dare start using that face with me,” John warned. It was the look that had gotten them into trouble plenty of times in the past and John was not in the mood to deal with it right now. It was the face Sherlock used to convince John to have sex in that alleyway in South Bank. Six hours in a cell and a disapproving lecture from Mycroft later, John swore he wouldn’t fall for that face again.

But John’s patience had thinned during his years in Afghanistan. He was more willing to snap at someone over petty things. He had even punched a junior officer over a disagreement in the canteen. He wouldn’t hurt Sherlock, but he definitely was pushing his buttons.

“I’ve waited three years, John. The least you can do is spare me three hours.” Sherlock said once more with a whine.

“Sherlock,” John was beginning to get irritated.

“Joooohn---!” Sherlock complained loudly.

John had enough, and he snapped. “William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes, enough already! I just got home, and I haven’t had any tea or even a chance to breathe before you jumped my bones. Give me some **space**!” John turned to glare at Sherlock.

          That was a mistake.

Sherlock looked hurt, very hurt, and immediately John regretted losing his temper with him. He mentally kicked himself. _Nice job, Watson,_ he thought, _not even home for a day and you’ve managed to bollocks something up._

Sherlock’s face suddenly turned emotionless. He let go of John and turned his back on him.

He’s in defense mode.

John sighed sadly and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, held him tightly. Sherlock didn’t try to push him away, which was a good sign. “Oi,” John said softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just tired and wanted to relax for a while.” Sherlock stayed silent for a long time. John believed he’d fallen asleep, until he felt his body start to tremble and heard sniffling. He immediately sat up and leaned over to see Sherlock’s face. Just as he thought, Sherlock was crying. He quickly hid his face when John looked at him.

 _You’ve fucked up, Watson. Again._ John lay back down and pulled Sherlock to his chest tighter. “I’m sorry, love.” Sherlock went rigid, pulled away and got out of bed mumbling something about “hydrochloric acid” and “polyester.” John slumped against the pillows, feeling awful.

Sherlock was, well, _Sherlock_ — brilliant, mad, and at times incredibly hard to deal with. But John knew the kind of household Sherlock grew up in and always tried to be the eye of his storm—calm (even when he felt like clocking him). He was also all too aware of his abusive relationship with that prick of an ex-boyfriend, Victor.

John remembered that night at about 2:00 a.m. when Sherlock burst into to his flat in tears. John had fought his instinct to kick in Victor’s teeth right then, instead he focused on helping Sherlock finally get the courage to leave him.

            John was there for Sherlock when no one else would be. He comforted him and took care of him when he left Victor, but leaving had proved more difficult than either of them imagined.

While Victor wasn’t the worst of Sherlock’s demons, he was a reliable source of cocaine. And even after he cut ties with Victor, his self-destructive spiral didn’t stop. If he wasn’t shooting up, Sherlock would indulge in self-harm or alcohol. He lost his flat, his job, and he was _this_ close to losing John as well. After all he’d been through with his own sister’s bad habits, John gave Sherlock an ultimatum: “It’s either me or the drugs.”

It took Mycroft’s intervention (and a secure rehab center) to finally turn him around. A year later, they were married.

Sherlock could be annoying, demanding, a bit arrogant and egotistical, but that was nothing new. John entered this relationship knowing what he was getting himself into, so he shouldn’t have reacted to Sherlock’s persistent whining the way he did. Hell, in a way, he was drawn to the qualities of Sherlock that others were repulsed by. He could still remember that awkward 17-year-old boy he had met all those years ago.

 _Well, get off your ass and fix this,_ he practically yelled at himself. _Today is supposed to be a joy-filled day; you don’t have to muck it up with your temper._ He grabbed his cane, which was propped up on the nightstand, and headed for the kitchen.

Sherlock was peering into his microscope, staring intently at — well, something small, anyway. John approached him quietly, and just stood there, watching him change slide after slide.

“Sherlock,” he grimaced at how weak he sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Sherlock, love. I’m sorry.” Sherlock still sat there, showing no signs of having heard anything.

Finally, Sherlock sighed loudly and said, “All is forgiven,” but John knew better than to fall for that. Sherlock always was the kind to avoid confrontation, so naturally he would try to forgive and forget any bad situations; he said it keeps his mind “focused and clean.” For now, though, John simply let himself be forgiven and went over to the kettle to make some tea. If there’s one thing he’d missed more than Sherlock, it was tea.

“Black, two sugars,” Sherlock muttered, still entranced with whatever he was looking at. John only rolled his eyes in response.

 

* * *

 

“You know, I despise Doctor Who.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. John couldn’t help but grin at him.

“That’s why we’re watching it. I love the show, and you love cuddling while I watch it.” Sherlock scoffed.

“I don’t cuddle. I refuse to use that word to describe what we are doing.”

“Okay, fine. What are we doing then?”

“Embracing, snuggling, fondling. Don’t use something as elementary as ‘cuddling.’”

John was preparing a retort when the television let out the sound of an explosion so loud it was as if a bomb had gone off in 221B. Before Sherlock knew it, John had them both pinned to the floor, his body racked with tremors.

_Fire. Smoke. Powdered concrete falling in sheets. Sulfur in the air and blood on the ground. Bullet after bullet was racing past. Gulping air, head spinning. Crying, shouting. The man needs help. They all need help._

_A boy appears at his feet, no older than 18. Just a child. (A_ child _!)_

_“What’s your name, soldier?” Remember your training: talk to the wounded. Keep their mind off the pain._

_“G-George, sir — George Price — oh, God!!” He twists on the ground. Stomach wound, keep steady pressure. He’s shaking. Sobbing._

_Reassure the boy, but first but— Oh, God!  More explosions, closer this time. Keep steady pressure. Focus. Clean cotton gauze blooming crimson. His life in your hands, your blood-soaked shaking hands._

“John! Can you hear me?” A voice yelled, pulling him back into the present. Even though John had tackled him to the ground, Sherlock was now on top of him, staring intently at him. John blinked, trying to come back. “You’re alright, Johnny. You’re home now.” It took a moment, but John then realized what happened and groaned loudly.

“Sorry about that, love.” He rubbed his hand over his face, and took deep breaths. Sherlock sat them both up, and he began to massage John’s shoulders.

“There’s no need for apologies. You’ve only been home a day. You just need some rest,” He stood John up, and walked him into their bedroom. John felt inadequate and broken. He hated it. But as Sherlock said, he’d only been home a day. Sherlock lay down with him, but never really went to sleep. He only stayed because he knew John needed the comfort and “cuddling” as he called it. 

 

John woke up the next morning, and could almost taste the sand on his tongue.


	3. Oceans And Rivers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!!! I know, this should have been up a looooong time ago, but at least it's here now :)  
> Enjoy!

A case came through a week after John returned home. Sherlock flounced around, practically glowing with energy while John observed from his chair.

“Finally! It’s been weeks.” Sherlock threw on his coat and began to tie his scarf. John smiled and quietly set his newspaper down on the floor. He took a final sip of tea, grabbed his cane and slipped on his shoes. Sherlock eyed him warily. “Johnny,” he intoned, “I think you should sit this one out.” Sherlock expected him to be upset, but instead John barked out a laugh.

“That’s a good one. You almost had me.” John chuckled and reached for his coat and keys. He absently checked his billfold for cash. “Of course I’m coming, love. What’s it this time?” John gave him a wide grin and Sherlock’s heart sank. John hadn’t had an episode since that night with Doctor Who (although nightmares still plagued his sleep). Still, he wasn’t going to take any chances. He needed to put his foot down.

Sherlock straightened up and, puffed out his chest. Drawing himself up to his full height, he paced slowly to John and gave a quiet, but firm order: “No.”

John’s smile faltered. He almost looked surprised, but quickly recovered and raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?” Sherlock knew this would turn into an argument and fast, but to protect John he would endure it.

“I’m sorry, John, but you can’t go. It’s of the utmost importance that you remain here. This is barely a Four; I can handle it on my _own_.”

Obviously, he was lying. Only an Eight could pull Sherlock out of the flat in such a fury.

“Bullshit, Sherlock. A Four doesn’t cause you nearly flip over the couch trying to get out the door. Now let’s go. Anderson’s probably ruining the evidence as we speak.”

But he couldn’t let him _go_. John just couldn’t **go**.

Even though he had been doing well, there was still a chance this could go wrong. If John had another episode because of Sherlock’s negligence, he would never forgive himself. It would be his fault for not stopping John from coming, for not protecting him the way he wanted to. John took care of him and protected him when he needed it most (Victor, the abuse, the drugs), so he would do the same — or die trying.

Sherlock tried once more, this time almost pleading. “Johnny, please. I just don’t want you to go.” He spoke in the sweetest voice he could muster, but John’s face broke beneath the surface and his smile grew cold.

_I don’t want you to go._

There it was. Sherlock not only didn’t _need_ him for this case, (of course not, it’d been years) but he didn’t even _want_ him there. John cocked his head, his smile growing wider, wilder.

They’d scaled buildings, and chased criminals through alleyways. Yes, it was dangerous and mad, but it was their work and it was their life. And now Sherlock didn’t need him? Didn’t want him? After three years alone, of course Sherlock was bound to gain some kind of independence. But while John was proud of his growth, the admission still wounded him.

_Military doesn’t need you. Your own husband doesn’t need you._

John clenched his left hand once, twice. He took a deep breath and tried to put on his best Captain face.

He was going into battle.

Sherlock read all of this in an instant, and hurriedly began to backpedal. “No, that’s not what I meant—”

“No.” John threw his hands up. “No, it’s fine. I get it. You’ve gotten used to working alone. That’s fine, it’s all _fine_.” His voice wavered just a bit, but he kept his composure. He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “Right. Well, you best be off, then.”

John limped back to his chair and took a long pull from his of now-cold tea, his eyes fixed on a spot just outside the window. He shook open his discarded paper and began to “read”.

Sherlock looked at him sadly for a bit, but finished putting on his scarf, one of the many guilty parting gifts from John before his deployment. He touched the door handle, but couldn’t bring himself to open it. He bit his lip (a habit he picked up from John). Had he been too harsh? Surely he knew it was for his own benefit. There was no telling what was out there, and having only been home week John needed rest and relaxation — not blood and bodies.

Sherlock padded over to John, who stubbornly ignored his presence. He leaned down and ghosted a kiss across his creased forehead. “I love you,” Sherlock whispered, and swept out the door, clearing his mind for the case ahead.

 

 

It was four in the _fucking_ morning, and John was going to kill Sherlock Holmes. He had gone on his case around five that evening and still hadn’t returned by _four_ in the _fucking morning_.

John knew 10 easy ways to kill a man, and one might be put into use if a lanky, young man didn’t show his face through that door in the next 15 minutes.

He’d gone through what felt like his 50th cup of tea, paced the length of the flat until his leg gave out, then eventually nodded off during a late night _Are You Being Served?_ marathon. His sleep was fitful and broken, marred by too-real visions of Sherlock, blood and fear.

Unable to sleep and sick with worry, John was left to stare at his phone and front door all night. He wrapped himself up in an old blanket and sat in his chair, texting Sherlock far too many times (and not receiving a single reply).

_Where are you? –JW [9:35pm]_

_I’m worried._

_Call me when you read this. –JW [10:01pm]_

_Pick up some food from Tesco’s on your way home?_

_Please. –JW [10:13pm]_

_Fuck, Sherlock._

_Get home already. –JW [10:54pm]_

_I phoned Lestrade, and he said he hasn’t heard from you in three hours._

_CALL ME. –JW [11:26pm]_

_I am so close to calling Mycroft. Don’t do this to me. Just call. Text._

_Something. [12:54am]_

_I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes, if you don’t come home now, I don’t know._

_I don’t know what I’ll do.  [1:46am]_

_I called Mycroft. He said he’s got his best men on it._

_I feel a bit better. I’m going to sleep.  [1:54am]_

_Well, fuck. I had a nightmare you died. And Mycroft hasn’t called back._

_I’m going to kill you._   _[_ _3:16am]_

It was now 4:53am. John glowered at the first rays of sunlight cresting over the buildings across the street. It was beautiful, of course, but John was far too pissed and worried to appreciate the rare sight. He wasn’t in the habit, after all, of staying up all night visualizing in fine detail all of the best and worst ways to murder his missing husband. (Truly inventive, some of them.) John grimaced; Sherlock would be very proud.

He was partway through a particularly clever scenario involving a 9 iron and a bag of frozen blackberries when he heard the door downstairs crash open. John nearly jumped out of his skin, but remained composed. He stood up quickly, bracing himself for whatever was about to come barreling through their door. It was Mycroft, as expected, but he had someone else in tow, his hand gripped painfully around their forearm.

It was Sherlock.

And he was drenched.

John went from pissed off to completely (relieved) livid.

“Hello, John. I believe you were looking for this one. Go on, Sherlock,” Mycroft said smugly, his tight-lipped smile belying his anger. He prodded his brother into the center of the room, surrendering him fully to John’s mercy.

If looks could kill.

Sherlock worked hard to avoid John’s eyes, electing instead to study his mud-caked shoes. He picked at the hem of his coat, which dripped puddles around him.

They stood for a while, a silent triangle: John seething, Sherlock sulking and Mycroft considering John’s painfully clenched jaw and his worried fingernails. After several long moments, Mycroft sighed heavily and gathered himself to leave.

“Sherlock, Tell my dear brother-in-law what you’ve got yourself into.” A quick, but meaningful look passed between the brothers. Sherlock gave an imperceptible nod and lowered his head. “John? I’ll be in touch.” With that, the British Government left Sherlock in the hands of a fuming ex-army Captain.

Sherlock stood mute, still fidgeting, but making no move toward John (whose ears were pretty much blowing out steam).

“Let’s get you changed,” John said in his doctor voice, detaching himself from the situation as best he could. He’d have words with Sherlock, but not until he stopped shivering and soaking their rugs with river water.

“Bathroom,” John ordered.

Sherlock moved on instinct, following John’s commands without protest. He waited vacantly in the bathroom, his eyes fixed at an unknown point in space about half a meter through the mirror.

John returned with a bundle of warm, clean clothes and a plastic sack for the wet ones. He deposited the bundle on the counter, turned on the tap for the bath and wordlessly set to work inspecting Sherlock for damage.

Minor abrasion: left thigh. Superficial pattern bruising: right forearm. (Zealous, weren’t we, Mycroft?) John smirked in spite of himself. Finally satisfied that Sherlock was relatively uninjured, John left to start a fire without another word.

Now bathed and changed, Sherlock reluctantly made his way to the sitting room and took a seat in his chair. John gripped the mantle above the fireplace, relying on the thin strip of wood for support through his rapidly shifting emotions. When he spoke, his voice was raw and intimidating.

“Sherlock, I honestly don’t care what went on with you today. You will have a chance to explain later, but right now is my time to speak — so listen.” He straightened up and faced his husband properly, who still wouldn’t look him in the eye. “What you did today was unacceptable. You had me worried **sick** , Sherlock. I texted you God knows how many times tonight — _no, let me finish_!” John bellowed in his Captain voice as Sherlock tried to speak.

Sherlock lowered his head in shame and let John proceed. “I was worried sick. I had to resort to calling _Mycroft!_ You know how desperate I must have been to do that. I am so pissed at you, but I’m so relieved you’re home safe. That’s all that matters.” John let out a long breath and scrubbed a palm over his face. “I am beyond exhausted. I’m going to bed.” He turned, and then added, “You’re sleeping on the couch.” With that, John stalked down the hall to _his_ bedroom, making sure to slam the door in case the point wasn’t clear enough.

Sherlock sat for a while, staring into the fire and wondering how he would make this up to John. Yes, one could argue that jumping into the Thames after an armed suspect bordered on irresponsible — but it really was the only logical course of action given the situation. He’d like to say he took one for the team, but obviously John was awfully worried.

 _“Oh, Sherlock, why can’t you think of someone other than yourself for once?”_ Mycroft’s disembodied voice scolded.

Sherlock bristled. The idea was absurd. Of course he thought of others. He spent a great deal of time and energy, in fact, thinking about one _other_ in particular — one he’d hoped to spare from harm by keeping him home last night.

But the longer he considered the situation, the clearer he realized that for all of his good intentions, there was nothing out there John could have seen that would wound him more than what he’d experienced these last 12 hours. The agony of ignorance. The feeling of impotence. Of worry over a loved one in harm’s way (God knows where) and not being able to do a thing to keep them safe. Not knowing when — or even _if_ — they’d return.

Sherlock knew these feeling well; they were his constant companions for the last three years.

But how could protecting John be selfish? Especially now, when he had the chance to do so. God knows how many times he’d been accused of being self-centered, egotistical or callous. But surely John would see that it was all for him, that Sherlock left him out of kindness, not —

He tried to put order to his reasoning, but the words died in his mouth even before they were formed. There was no right answer, no clever rationalization that would make what he’d done OK.

Christ. He’d really fucked up.

Sherlock sat sulking until morning light flooded the flat. He patted himself absently looking for his phone, and he let out an exasperated sigh when he realized it wasn’t on him. His jump into the Thames had ruined that as well. Mycroft had promised him a new one by the next day, so he’d have to wait to check in with Lestrade. Until then, Sherlock crossed the room and settled on the couch, his hands tucked under his chin in a prayer like fashion as he analyzed everything that could have been done differently.

John had yet another nightmare.

_Water. Lots of it. Too much — way, way too much._

_He could hear screaming, the distant sound muffled by water filling his ears. It was so dark. Shadows shifted in the murk; he couldn’t make out anything._

_Then he saw it._

_Curls, dark as night. A man floating like an ethereal being, struggling. John swam and swam and swam and swam._

_He got closer — to his horror the face got clearer._

_“SHERLOCK!” He wanted to scream, but fear of drowning held him silent._

_There were so many others — faces he could vaguely remember, but familiar all the same._

_Comrades. Friends._

_There was Mikey. (Self-less, sacrificed himself for John.)_

_Sammy. (Couldn’t save him, blood wouldn’t stop — It never does.)_

_Sergeant Sweets. (She kept him sane, even while dying in his arms)_

_Then, Sherlock’s pale face turned to meet his. There was no spark in his eyes. No sign that anybody was home in that beautiful, complicated brain of his. Sherlock was drowning and drowning and drowning. They all were…_

_Then they all did. Right in front of him. Floating to the bottom of the great abyss like demons; those once celestial angels, now bound to hell._

 

John awoke with a blood-curdling scream.

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. Ripped from his thoughts, Sherlock launched himself in a panic toward their bedroom and threw open the door. He found John curled up on the far side of the bed, trembling like a leaf. He was coated in sweat (almost as wet as Sherlock was earlier that morning), his hair disheveled, and breathing extremely hard.

When his eyes caught onto Sherlock’s form, John leapt up and tackled him to the ground.

“Oof! John — John! Look at me.” Sherlock scrambled to loosen the death grip on his torso. They wrestled on the floor, John gulping air, racked with rigors and clinging to Sherlock as if his life depended on it.

Soon, his breathing began to slow and his arms slackened slightly. He curled into Sherlock’s chest like a child, clutching at his shirt. Sherlock took in John’s expression and with a pained sigh asked, “It wasn’t Afghanistan, was it?”

John just shook his head furiously. “God, I wish it was,” his voice was ragged and broken like glass. His eyes shone with tears. “ _Never_ do that to me again, never again.” He chanted it over and over, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck.

It didn’t take half of Sherlock’s genius to know what John meant. He had done something that was, well, more than a bit not good. Stupid. _Stupid_! He should have known better than to run off without John. By trying to prevent another episode like this — he never put into thought that he, himself, by going out and getting lost in the thrill of the game might trigger a reaction like this from John.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Once John had stopped quaking, Sherlock carefully lifted himself and John off the floor, and into the bed. John immediately burrowed into his husband’s side, breathing a sigh of relief. They lay there for some time, letting the silence comfort them.

“You died,” John whispered. “They all did.” Sherlock simply nodded. John spoke again. “Linda Sweets, Sammy Michelson, and Mikey Woods… out of everyone I knew out there, they were my closest friends, and I lost every single one of them to bullets and bombs. Even, in my nightmare, they died yet again — drowned.” Sherlock heard John take a deep breath, and the next words made his stomach drop. “You did, too.”

The room was quiet once more. It wasn’t as comforting as before; Sherlock felt a weight in his chest.

Guilt.

Hard, strong and vulgar, it sat on him and crushed his innards.

“I’m _so_ sorry, Johnny. Oh God, I’m sorry. I was so thoughtless, and I should have brought you with me. I will never do that again, John Watson-Holmes. I will never leave you for as long as I live.” Sherlock held onto him tighter than before.

Surprisingly, he heard John chuckle, soft and barely there.“Never?”

Sherlock’s voice swelled with sincerity. “Never again. I Promise.”

“Even if I to go to the loo?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to laugh. He hugged John closer to his chest. “Especially then.”

They lay smiling, letting the familiar warmth of their bodies wash away the fear, resentment and anxiety of the day.

“God knows why, but I forgive you, you great idiot.” Sherlock let out a great, big yawn, and John gave another genuine chuckle. “I think we could both use the sleep.”

“All day?” Sherlock questioned, smiling slightly.

“All day.”

He hummed in content and let sleep wash over him like a wave.


	4. Off the Grid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a long time coming but it's here :D  
> Enjoy!!!!

“Absolutely not,” John mouthed around another forkful of khao phat — the house specialty — as the scruffy and overweight waiter who (to no surprise) owed Sherlock a favor; so, he served their meal enthusiastically. The bloke may have been a felon (with the tattoos to show for it), but his palate was spot-on. Between endless hospital fare and those ghastly ration packs, it’d been years since John had proper Thai, and he ate with relish. Sherlock, however, seemed to have only ordered out of courtesy as he ignored his free meal entirely.

He was sitting half turned, shifting nervously, tapping his fingers on the table rapidly and surveying the crowd that was spilling out from the Bayswater tube station. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock pleaded. “It’s very important—” He tapped his foot energetically against the leg of the table. He never was the poster-boy of patience.

“Can’t be,” John interrupted with his mouth full. “Or else you wouldn’t have slept all day.”

Sherlock frowned and spooned at his teacup of broth, dunking the single mushroom listlessly. “But Lestrade—”

"Can wait, Sherlock,” John lifted his fork, gesturing between the two of them. “We were having a date, and if you spend the whole evening texting, you won’t be nearly so charming.”

Sherlock sat back in mock protest and folded his arms, still keeping one eye on the busy street. “I am always charming.” He drawled.

"Well,” John smiled, sweetly chewing another bite of jasmine rice, “prove it.” Sherlock proved it. Sherlock — when left without his phone and a case to preoccupy him — could be very charming, when he put his big brain to it. Their conversation was punctuated by laughter, which was astonishingly pleasant and fluid. To John’s delight, Sherlock ate with gusto; he even sent complements the chef on their tray of desserts.

“I can’t choose — surprise us!” Sherlock had giggled into his balled up napkin. 

Imagine that: Sherlock Holmes, giggling! 

During their walk through the gardens (only as far as Lancaster Gate — Sherlock had insisted rather earnestly), Sherlock regaled John with most of the details from the case of last night’s bridge jumper, putting extra emphasis on his brilliant deductions while skimming through the mechanics of his fall and ultimate rescue. If John never knew how close the suspect had actually come to nicking Sherlock’s abdomen (in his defense, the man was bigger than him, so trying to swipe the knife from the attackers hand was a hard feat) with his knife or how he’d nearly froze to death until — fortunately —Mycroft’s black sedan snuck up and spotted him, well, it was all for the better. And so, as Sherlock came alive in the chill London night, so did John. The color returned to his cheeks as the night became clustered with stars and streetlamps, the moon following close behind them.

As the rush of traffic eventually eased in the London streets, John even found himself favoring his aluminum crutch less. Sherlock made a mental note to replace that monstrous relic with something befitting his handsome and clever war hero (something of value; perhaps mahogany, with a carved handle). Three years gone by, and Sherlock still had tucked in his Mind Palace the size, depth and spacing of the grooves for the handle of the cane (that he will get made). 

Later that night, as they fell asleep entwined together (Sherlock’s long legs wrapped around him for the second time that day), John felt a twinge of gratitude for the unlucky bullet that brought him home. Sherlock’s head laid snug against the crook of his shoulder, where he laid soft, shallow breaths that ghosted warm and cool across John’s skin.

John brushed an errant curl away from Sherlock’s lidded eyes as he studied the details of a face he’d only been able to see translated through blurry pixels for what felt like ages (dear God, a lifetime!). Sherlock was now a bit older, thinner, had a trace of a line or two developing between the over-furrowed brows. Despite his reputation for coldness and hostility, he even had a few laugh lines, too. 

John sighed deeply and rubbed his cheek against the unruly mop of lamb’s wool hair, cherishing their closeness. He cradled Sherlock’s milky cheek and planted soft, quiet kisses over the new lines creasing the bridge of his nose and the corners of his mouth. He felt a sting of regret for not being there to see those distinguished laugh lines bloom, knowing his absence had further cemented those handsome brow lines. If not for his new creases, Sherlock’s cherubim face still belied his age and the depth and extent of his lifelong struggles. John figured he was not so fortunate. Though Sherlock’s hair has retained its sable luster, his was now prematurely flecked with gray, and as he shifted to relieve his now stiff pinned leg, John supposed that of the pair, he was the worse for wear. 

Sherlock’s breath hitched as it fell on John’s throat and he stirred to nuzzle deeper into John’s shoulder, hot breath trailing across his wound. Sherlock jerked subtly — eyebrows pinching together as if he were deep in thought — and moaned in his sleep. John wasn’t quite sure anymore that he was the only one who had nightmares. 

The tremors, the nightmares.

John pushed out the thoughts as they came flooding in: faces of the men and women he’d cradled in those same arms, limp and helpless as Sherlock was now, though stained crimson with blood, their own eyebrows knitted in suffering he couldn’t relieve. John breathed through the weight pushing in and out on his chest as it threatened to collapse. He clutched Sherlock closer and hauled him nearly on top of himself. If he were to be crushed or destroyed, it would be only by the weight of his impossible husband.

Sherlock roused only slightly, mumbling. “N-hJohn?”

“I’m right here, Sherlock.”

"Y’alright?”

“Yes, fine. I’ve got you.”

"No, v’got you.” Sherlock purred, his chest rumbling against John’s, and rolled over until their placed were flipped, catching John in lithe arms and wrapping him more tightly in legs and blankets. “V’always got you,” he murmured, half conscious.

John settled in the cavernous hollow of Sherlock’s body, thankfully absorbing the warmth he radiated from mostly bones and joints. Quaking, John let their combined heat and comfort blanket him in as he drifted into unconsciousness, trying hard to force out the hauntingly familiar sounds of the rumbling of city busses (reminds him of the sounds of planes, flying overhead before they’d perform an airstrike) and the bang (bombs, so many bombs) of car doors. He pressed his ear to Sherlock’s chest, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of a peaceful heart. Earplugs; perhaps they could work. He’d see about them tomorrow.

\------------------------------------------

John awoke alone — still perfectly warm, but his traitorous body trembled like a leaf all the same. His chronically late-sleeping husband — who should be wrapped around him like a lovelorn squid or nested in all of their bed sheets — was evidently absent.

Joints popping and tendons straining from clutching Sherlock half the night, John rose and massaged his leg (killing him), his shoulder (still sore) and his hand (pitiful ex-surgeon’s hand), now tremulous and unsure. John listened hard (his ears being far more superior over the few years of having to trust the sense), hyper-aware of any sound in the flat as he ran down his own brand of deductive reasoning.

It was now 8:20 am, and Sherlock’s side of the bed was freezing to the touch. A Tuesday morning in November was one of the slowest days in the slowest month for homicide. Besides, Sherlock had no phone and he’d made a solid promise not to leave John home alone again. 

Perhaps he’d got bored — no. John shook away that train of thought promptly. 

The state of the wardrobe meant Sherlock had dressed properly. Not for a client (no doorbell), so this was planned. Cigarette smoke signaled that Sherlock was anxious. And an anxious, well dressed, early-rising Sherlock usually meant– 

Oh. Mycroft. 

John pressed his ear to the wall and the murmuring from the other side confirmed his suspicion. A buttery tenor insinuated itself between Sherlock’s low growl and a faint — but annoyed —violin pizzicato.

John screwed his eyes shut in frustration as his head thudded against the wall. He liked his brother in law, he did, but Mycroft was a different mind altogether. Intellectually, the Holmes brothers were near equals, although they chose to pretend that the gulf between their abilities was far wider than it really was. What Sherlock did have, however, that Mycroft seemed to lack, was a basic compassion for the human condition, something that he insisted was not an advantage.

In many cases, this conclusion could be considered prudent, if not correct (or even human, really). Caring leaves opportunity for pain, but John knew and suspected Sherlock had also learned that the suffering of loss and the sacrifice of caring is worth the trouble if it means living a fulfilling life and leaving the world a little better in the end.

The doctor’s care, the detective’s justice and the soldier’s pride… well, were all laughable to the rising statesman. And for all he liked Mycroft, John felt like he was simply a chess piece to whom he owed a debt. Now, John certainly had the misfortune of owing Mycroft a debt. God, he’d better go see how much the tab was. ------------------------------------------

"All of our information confirms it’s him.” Mycroft sat primly in John’s overstuffed chair, his fingers tracing absent circles over his umbrella handle. He pretended to ignore Sherlock — plucking at his violin — who also pretended not to hear.

“And what concern of mine is a common thug?” Sherlock asked, chin tipped up in defiance.“A drug dealer? A thief? Absolutely tedious.”

Mycroft smiled tightly. “Arms dealer now, too. He’s made his way in the world.”

"I don’t see how that’s my problem,” He responded stiffly.

“More work for you, I imagine," Mycroft shifted forward and failed to hand Sherlock a plain manila envelope; he placed it on Sherlock’s lap, only for the detective to shift and have it land on the floor with a plop! sound. “He’s spent some years abroad, gained some work experience,” He picked up the file and flicked through a few pages, pausing briefly on a stack of photographs. “Made some new friends,” he continued pleasantly. Sherlock feigned boredom, even producing an obviously fake yawn. “His group is gaining a toe-hold in England and despite your attempts to ignore it, he will become your problem, Sherlock.”

Still defiant as ever, Sherlock gave the A-string a sharp pluck. “Fascinating. Not interested.”

“The sooner he’s stopped the easier it will be. You know this.”

"What’s stopping you?”

“Well, my hands are tied in a manner of speaking.” Mycroft sat back and fidgeted with his umbrella, looking slightly away. “Possibly until the new year, perhaps even longer.”

“You would care more about the state of elections than our safety.” Sherlock said flatly.

“Don’t misunderstand, Sherlock, this is a matter of national importance—“

“To me, this is a matter of domestic importance, Mycroft. One that is of far greater concern than who’s warming a seat in your parliament!” Sherlock snapped, abandoning his violin to take a position by the window, his eyes flashing like a caged tiger.

Mycroft let the moment pass, their faces locked in a battle written in vague gestures of the jaw and eyebrow. “How’s John?” Mycroft finally asked, his voice turning soft.

Sherlock worried the inside of his cheek. “Honestly, I don’t know. He’s… well, the leg is psychosomatic—”

“Clearly.” Mycroft interrupted.

"Clearly.” Sherlock took a long pause to consider his brother.

“He needs you, Sherlock. Far more than you know.”

Sherlock snorted in mock laughter and ran his hands through his hair. “Who could possibly need me?”

Mycroft looked at him pityingly. “He needs comfort and security; John couldn’t bear another separation.”

"I know,” Sherlock said softly, gripping the chair back. “I know.” His new phone pinged from the table. Sherlock cut his eyes to it fractionally to take in the message.

 

_Sherlock, call when you can — GL_

 

“This may not be Afghanistan, but John is still under threat. You are a threat. I’m sure I don’t need to bring to your attention the fact that if I had gotten to you when I did, John would be alone right now in this very flat. Think what he’d be like, Sherlock or what he’d do. You’d be very proud of all your clever detective work then, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock glowered at Mycroft. The message was clear. “Where you go, he goes. That much should be obvious. Do make sure on your next case—“

“Who said anything about another case?” Sherlock spat venomously.

Mycroft’s mouth worked dumbly for a moment. “Sherlock,” he said, with a placating, unbelieving smile. Sherlock stood and raised his chest in challenge like a peacock who’s ego was bruised. The click of John’s aluminum cane warned his arrival.

“Good Morning, Sherlock. Mycroft.” He said with a small smile before observing the temperature of the room. The crutch-click stopped its advance. “Don’t let me interrupt.” A look passed between the Holmes brothers.

To all outward appearances, Mycroft had arranged his face into something distressingly human: soft, confused and a little sad. Sherlock’s rigid features locked on his brother tartly screaming: GET. OUT. 

Mycroft’s expression shifted into its default disdainful over-politeness as he turned his saccharine smile on John. “Actually,” he said, rising, “I’d best be off. Lots to do in the office, you know.”

“And I’d be fool to stop you.” John grinned back, sincere. Both were thankful for the smoothing effect of surface chatter and pleasantries. 

"John, really, if you need anything,” Mycroft started, observing the hackles on John’s neck visibly rising, “just call.”

John nodded once. Accepting the remark, but making it clear that option would remain his last resort. “Thank you, but I believe I’ll manage.”

The two shared a chaste handshake and Mycroft ducked his voice a little, softening it slightly. Sherlock still watched his brother like a cat. “I’m glad you’re home safe, John. I really am.”

“Sherlock.” he said in parting with a meaningful look. Then he was gone. 

“Gave you a talking to, did he? You deserve it.”

“Just returning my phone is all.” Sherlock held up the device, and it pinged in demonstration.

_Need to talk to you. Urgent — GL_

He pocketed the device and turned with a smile to John. "Hungry?”

"Starved,” John admitted. “You’re not going to–” He gestured toward Sherlock’s pocket, which sounded a second time.

“There’s a new Vietnamese place in Holborn — excellent pho. Or the Gino’s does a good fry-up, from what I’ve heard.” John eyed him suspiciously. Sherlock simply barreled on. “The Dorset has an acceptable brunch, too, but if you’re not keen on going out, I could cook, however I’d need to do the shopping first if you don’t mind waiting.”

John’s eyebrows hit the ceiling and stayed there. He stared at Sherlock in increasing amazement. “Sorry — let me get this right. YOU, Sherlock Holmes, are offering to go shopping and cook a meal?”

Sherlock’s worry lines pleated in confusion. “Yes, John, that’s what I said. I thought that was fairly obvious. Weren’t you listening?” Sherlock’s phone sounded again from his pocket, ignored.

“I just. I didn’t know that you could cook,” John thought hard about it for a moment. “Or even had ever cooked. Or shopped for that matter.”

"Please, John. How do you think I survived in your absence?”

“Mrs. Hudson, probably. Or I thought you’d worked out how to photosynthesize.” John worked his stiff knee and Sherlock worried his lip.

“Could have it delivered,” Sherlock soothed, “it’s no trouble”

“No. I’m dying for a walk, actually.”

"John—“

He brushed off Sherlock’s concern. It was in part flattering to be the center of his care and attention, although the acknowledgement of his seemingly causeless infirmity bordered on maddening. _Shoulder wound_. John scolded himself. _Damned broken soldier, that’s all. Just falling apart, don’t mind me_. “It’s fine.” John smiled through his discomfort and collected his coat. “I’m sure I’ll be dancing the tarantella within the week.”

"Always fancied the Macarena, myself,” grinned Sherlock, as he rearranged his pockets. His lips crooked upward into a cat’s smile.

“I’ll sign us up for lessons then. Will you lead?” John motioned toward the landing, his hand extended and back bowed in mock formality. Sherlock took his hand and dipped his head, bringing John’s knuckles to his lips in a savoring kiss.

“With pleasure,” he purred and led John by the hand downstairs, their fingers still entwined as they made their way down the high street. 

Left behind and unheard in the clatter of shoes and cane on creaky wood stairs, Sherlock’s phone sounded twice more, pointedly abandoned on the side table.

_Come out and play... x_

_Miss me? x_


End file.
